#i feel like theres more to this story - i just havent cracked it yet fghjjhg

[gnocchighoul]

wax feathers // melting sun

summary: 

He can’t be serious.  You squint. Diavolo offers you a playful grin—innocent and boyish. Holy shit, he’s serious.

(Diavolo catches your eye and you come to realize that angels aren’t the only ones at risk of falling. It’s the beginning of the end.)

warnings: mc is wearing a dress, but pronouns aren’t specified.

The sight of the Demon Lord’s Palace is one that never grows old. It’s a vision straight out of a dark fairytale—black stone walls that crack open the waxy full moon, branching off into a vertical maze of arching bridges and twisting towers. Golden light spills out of the glass domed ballrooms, swallowed up by the black maw of sky. 

It’s ancient. Humming with an energy older than time itself—something powerful. Forbidden and curious. 

In your more rational moments, you think you should be afraid. That you shouldn't try—shouldn't want—to get too close. To the palace. To the golden boy within.

It’s a bit too late for that.

You glance briefly at the party goers, hoping to catch a glimpse of Lord Diavolo. He’s nowhere in sight—all around you are demons of all shapes and sizes, horns and scales and sharp teeth gleaming in the golden lights. 

The fruity fragrance of alcohol pierces through the savoury scent of food, pulling your attention to a long table, stationed near the enormous champagne tower. An enthusiastic Beel has settled himself in and is already tearing into an impressive spread of food.

In the edge of your vision you see Asmo, prowling nearby and nursing a flute of Cristal Acid Champagne. Sinking his teeth into his first target of the night: a flustered waiter who is very quickly losing interest in their job, clearly more taken with the prospect of Asmo—well, ah, taking them. Across the way, a brunette woman in magenta chiffon is eyeing the two of them in a very brazen manner, and you can’t help but make a face when Asmo beckons her over with a grin that’s all pearly-white teeth and unspoken promises.

The Avatar of Lust isn’t the only one attracting attention. This isn’t your first rodeo at the Demon Lord’s palace, but with the way demons are openly ogling you, it certainly feels that way. Unless you want to get swept up into a dance with a stranger, you need to find one of the brothers in the next five seconds—

“You’re here!” booms an awfully familiar voice, and you pivot, heart jumping in your chest, yards of sky blue satin twisting with you. Diavolo stands before you, arms spread wide, grin shining bright as the sun. He swoops in for a hug, and in an instant his arms are around you—enveloping you whole, crushing you against his left boob and all but knocking the air from your lungs. He pulls back after a moment, holding you at an arm’s length to admire you. “You look stunning.”

Heat travels down your neck—you nervously smooth down the fabric of your dress. "I think Asmo did well in the outfit department.” 

“Better than well,” Diavolo says, and your breath catches in your throat. His voice is a low timbre, rich like honey and twice as sweet and oh what you wouldn’t give to drown in it.

But, you notice it then—music. Light and airy, swelling slowly into something buoyant and thrilling. 

Whatever you were going to say to Diavolo dies on your tongue as a few couples stride past, and you peer around him to see what’s going on. Between the gaps of the crowd you catch sight of couples dancing, twirling around the dancefloor in a colorful, well versed harmony.

“Hm?” Diavolo notices your momentary lapse of attention and looks back over his shoulder. “Oh, I see. I’m quite fond of this waltz… Dance with me?” He smiles, and holds his hand out to you, palm up.

Your eyes widen, and you think, Oh, shit.

Dancing. Waltzing. In theory? Simple. But in reality… 

“I’m not very good,” you confess. 

“No worries. I’ll lead.” he says.

Briefly, you wonder if this is allowed. The idea is a striking one—you, weird little human that you are, dancing with the Prince of Hell. 

This has to be a breach of conduct, surely. The Devildom is rife with customs that you haven’t fully grasped, and even more that you’re simply unaware of. One little dance can’t hurt though… probably. You are one of Diavolo’s exchange students, after all—it would be weirder if he didn’t pay you any attention. Right? 

After all, Lord Diavolo is the one pushing for good relations between all three realms, so spending time with you in a public setting would probably be good for appearances. Yes.

Ugh. You sound like Lucifer.

Diavolo looks amused by your hesitancy—his molten gold eyes dazzling. 

Warmth. Like the sun. 

You think of Icarus. Of wax and feathers—of a light heart that knew nothing of fear. 

You’re supposed to be having fun.

You slip your hand in Diavolo’s own, much larger one, a smile tugging at your lips. “Alright.” 

He beams at you, and your heart flutters within your chest. There’s no time to dwell on it—he’s already tugging you towards the other dancing couples, feet moving in time with the music.

Diavolo stands directly in front of you and gently guides your left hand up his right arm, laying it just below his shoulder. Your fingers thread nervously into the soft black fur of his shawl—you’ve known for some time now that the future king is a beefcake, but holy hell is he dense. His right hand comes to rest firmly in the center of your back as he takes your free hand securely into his own. He pulls you closer. You have to tilt your head up to look at him.

He makes you feel so small.

“Ready?” Diavolo asks.

You nod, pushing your shoulders back and your chin up. 

You’re a little stiff and a tad clumsy. Diavolo takes it in good stride, thousands of years of experience making up for your woeful lack of. You’re so focused on where your feet are going and trying to not get tangled up in your skirts that you don’t notice the curious observers around you. 

Diavolo murmurs instructions for you, counting in time with the music. You don’t have time to be embarrassed, focused as you are on not stepping on the prince’s feet. 

...For a third time.

As if he can read your mind, he cheerily says, “You’re catching on fast! Why, you’ve only stepped on my foot twice!” 

There’s a teasing lilt to his voice that raises heat to the tips of your ears. 

Out of the corner of your eye you see Lucifer, who most definitely heard that and is now gawking at you like you’ve chopped off your hand and hurled it at him. You know in your heart that you’re going to get an earful later. Phooey.

You squeeze Diavolo’s hand, only a little bit accusingly. “I did try to warn you.” 

He makes an agreeable mm sound. “Well, you’ve got me there.” 

He pauses then—eyes shining like he’s got the winning hand. “Let’s try something else, yes?” 

He stops moving, and you with him—he leans in close, whispers into your ear.

You blink, once. Twice.

“Wait… seriously?” 

Diavolo nods.  “Mhm."

He can’t be serious. 

You squint. He offers you a playful grin—innocent and boyish. 

Holy shit, he’s serious.

Well, in that case… 

You step onto his shoes, this time on purpose (it’s free real estate, baby), and now you’re moving. Gliding. The song swells into something bright and joyful, and a laugh bubbles past your lips when he spins you in a wide circle. You feel like a child again—a bit ridiculous, excitement thrumming through your veins and a lightheadedness that leaves you intoxicated. Weightless. Free. 

You could stay like this for hours, you realize. Part of you wants to, even. 

All too soon, the music begins to fade. Diavolo spins you to the edge of the crowd and slows to a stop. A bit regretfully, you take a step back, the sudden lack of his warmth stinging bitter cold and hollow in your chest.

He smiles, then—presses soft lips to the back of your hand and murmurs, “Thank you for the dance—the first of many, I hope.” 

You melt, a bit.

Diavolo burns like the sun and you know—you know—that to stand by his side, to feel his warmth on your skin and to bloom in his light—you will pay a certain price. Plucked feathers and waterlogged lungs.

You wonder if Icarus regretted it. 

Your eyes stray for a moment, gaze passing over Diavolo’s shoulder—locking with red-onyx ones.

You smile.

“I would like that.”